


Yeast and Other Microorganisms

by cassieoh



Series: And After [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale isn't great at baking yet, Baking, Bread, M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), but he'll get there, softe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25193056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh
Summary: The bubbles rise up, in tiny pockets and lines and pools, gathering together and falling apart and Aziraphale cannot help but watch in wonder because they are so small and so powerful. He glances about but there’s no one in the kitchen save himself (and the millions of little beings in his bowl and the dried packets scattered around him, to say nothing of those he’d purchased at Tesco). He smiles at the first bowl, patting the warm side lovingly.“You’re doing so well,” he tells it, “You’ll be big enough in no time at all.”Then, he turns to the other bowl, the one he’s not added anything but flour and water, 100 grams of each. It is still and small compared to the other, but he smiles at it all the same.“Hello there dear, you’re not awake enough to hear me yet, but we’re going to make wonderful things together.”Or at least, he hopes they are. He’s not quite got the hang of bread yet, but he’s determined to keep trying.(no knowledge of the rest of the series required)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: And After [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1430776
Comments: 25
Kudos: 108
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love





	Yeast and Other Microorganisms

**Author's Note:**

> <3
> 
> EDIT: YALL PLEASE LOOK AT THE AMAZING ART SMOLALIENBEE DID IM SO EMOTIONAL  
> (you can find them [HERE](https://twitter.com/smolalienbee) or [HERE](https://www.instagram.com/smolalienbee/) and the rebloggable version of the art is[HERE](https://smolalienbee.tumblr.com/post/623537944365514752/he-leans-on-the-half-door-hands-limp-and-hair-in))

The bubbles rise up, in tiny pockets and lines and pools, gathering together and falling apart and Aziraphale cannot help but watch in wonder because they are so small and so powerful. He glances about but there’s no one in the kitchen save himself (and the millions of little beings in his bowl and the dried packets scattered around him, to say nothing of those he’d purchased at Tesco). He smiles at the first bowl, patting the warm side lovingly. 

“You’re doing so well,” he tells it, “You’ll be big enough in no time at all.” 

Then, he turns to the other bowl, the one he’s not added anything but flour and water, 100 grams of each. It is still and small compared to the other, but he smiles at it all the same. 

“Hello there dear, you’re not awake enough to hear me yet, but we’re going to make wonderful things together.” 

Or at least, he hopes they are. He’s not quite got the hang of bread yet, but he’s determined to keep trying. 

Last week Crowley fair  _ devoured  _ half a loaf of sourdough, each slice smeared thick with butter. He paused halfway through the third slice and asked if Aziraphale was planning to eat anything. Aziraphale set down his own slice (still his first, he realized, now cool in his fingers) and swallowed. 

“Of course,” he said, eyes caught on the little shiny spot of butter at the corner of Crowley’s mouth. 

“Good, it’s delicious,” Crowley said, picking up another slice and the knife. It scraped a little when it touched the crisp crust and the press of metal and butter against warm bread sends a wave of smell through the kitchen. Flour and yeast and the heat of the oven and that warm, contented smell that could only come in the late days of summer. 

Aziraphale took a bite of his own slice. It wasn't delicious, but it warmed something in him that Crowley so clearly enjoyed it anyway.   


Crowley almost never eats anything at all when they’re together, preferring to drink and talk and somehow loom over their unfortunate servers all without moving from whatever impossibly slumped position he’s wrangled himself into. 

But he’d eaten the bread and afterwards, he’d taken Aziraphale’s hand and told him the mess in the kitchen could wait and pulled him to the hammock in the garden behind the cottage. 

If he closes his eyes Aziraphale can still feel Crowley’s weight, pressing down on his chest as they sway gently back and forth. The demon lulled to sleep by the warmth of the late afternoon sun and a full stomach and Aziraphale oblivious to the passage of time because how could he ever notice anything so trivial when Crowley is asleep on him and Aziraphale need only reach out to tangle his fingers in Crowley’s hair?

The bread last week had been burnt on one end and misshapen to boot. It tasted well enough, but nothing like what Aziraphale had hoped. 

And still Crowley ate it. 

It makes something in Aziraphale’s stomach ache. 

He’s been reading something called blogs, little accounts random humans put out into the world to help each other (one of Crowley’s, though the demon assures him it was not a benevolent act, just look at how far you had to scroll to actually  _ get  _ to the recipe!). One, called  _ Queerly There!  _ had explained all about the differences in yeasts and how wild would make a very different bread from commercial. 

He wants to see that. Needs to see it. 

He isn’t sure why, but reading about how the yeast would slowly grow on its own, if only given love and attention, had lit a fire in him, keeping him awake for the last four nights. The commercial is faster, more reliable, more uniform. It’s perfectly serviceable and really there’s no reason not to be happy with it. 

But. 

Well, as soon as he’d learned about wild yeast the little packets had begun to bother him. 

“It’s not your fault,” he tells them, “I promise.”

The yeast does not respond, though he’s sure it’s aware in its own way. 

“You’re only what you were made to be, no one should fault you for that.” He pats the bowl again, pulling out another, larger one and beginning to measure out flour and water and just a dash of salt. Then, on second thought he pulls down the fresh ground cinnamon he’d bought last week on a whim. They’ve the last of the apple butter from last year and he has a sudden image of kissing the taste of apples and cinnamon from Crowley’s lips, of chasing the taste of fresh bread and of knowing that they were eating a meal made from the fruits of both their labors. 

He measures out the cinnamon and adds it to the flour. 

The commercial yeast grows and churns, becoming more and more active until the entire surface is covered in little bubbles. Aziraphale takes the bowl and holds it in his hands. 

“Now, dear, this might seem strange, but I’m going to keep just a bit of you, you’ll join your friend there in a few days, once things get going. The two of you will be something more than you ever thought you could.”

He hears a snort and whirls to see Crowley leaning against the half-open dutch-door from the kitchen to the garden. 

“Crowley!” The demon is a portrait in comfort, black vest top loose and slightly frayed as it had been since he miracled it into existence the previous summer. He leans on the half door, hands limp and hair in a braid and a little smudge of dirt on his nose and Aziraphale loves him so much it hurts. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley drawls, dragging Aziraphale’s name out until it’s practically an entire clause. 

Aziraphale picks up a small measuring cup and scoops a bit of the commercial starter into it, setting it aside. Then, he begins folding the rest into the other ingredients of the bread. Immediately the kitchen smells of cinnamon and yeast. From the corner of his eye, he sees Crowley relax even further, practically resting his head atop his folded arms. 

“Encouraging yeast are we now?” he asks, the lilt of a tease to his voice. Aziraphale’s not stung by it, he’s heard Crowley with the seedlings after all. 

“All living things need encouragement, my dear.” He takes a moment to roll up his sleeves before tilting the bread out onto the floured counter. Crowley appears at his elbow just as he’s beginning to knead, steals a kiss, and hops up onto the counter, just far enough down to avoid getting flour on his trousers. He scoops up the bowl of flour and water that will become the wild starter and holds it in his lap. 

“What’s this then?” He pokes at the top of the concoction with a bare finger, grimacing at the sticky feel of it. 

Aziraphale smiles. He’s learned in his reading that wild yeast is the sum of its experiences, coalesced from the air and the baker and the bowl, and now from his demon. 

The parallels try to smack him in the face, but he ignores them in favor of kneading just a bit harder at the dough. 

When it’s ready he taps the bowl he’d mixed it in to clean it and oil the sides before tipping the dough in and placing it in the window sill to prove. 

Then, he carefully cleans the commercial yeast bowl by hand, unwilling to scour the tiny entities away who will make the starter unique, and scrapes the little bit he’d held back into it once again, feeding it flour and water in equal portions. He takes both it and the wild starter and places them on another window sill. 

By the time he’s turned back around Crowley has snapped the mess of baking away and is leaned forward, eyes sparkling, smile curling the corners of his lips. 

“How long until it’s ready?” He asks and for once Aziraphale is unsure if the hunger in his voice is for affection or sustenance. 

“A few hours yet,” Aziraphale says, stepping close. “I’m sure we can find something to fill the time.” 

Crowley waits until Aziraphale stands between his legs before taking Aziraphale’s face in his hands and drawing him in for a long kiss. 

“I’m sure,” he says, lips still close enough to brush Aziraphale’s own when they resurface. Crowley opens his mouth to say something else, but before he can he’s interrupted by the sound of his stomach growling. 

Aziraphale snorts and steps back even as Crowley glares down, betrayed, at his gut. He pokes it with one finger. 

“Oi!” he tells it, “This is none of your concern!” 

And  _ oh how Aziraphale loves his ridiculous demon.  _

“Come on.” Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hands and pulls him from the countertop. “We’ll distract that stomach of yours. You can show me what you’ve spent today doing.” 

.

.

.

Later, when the bread is fresh from the oven and still steaming, they’ll smear the last of the apple butter across thick slices and the faintest hint of cinnamon will come through. Crowley will eat and grin at Aziraphale through sticky lips and Aziraphale will discover that the apple butter tastes just as good as he’d hoped on them. 

In the windowsill, the wild yeast will gather and collect little bits from Crowley’s hands and Aziraphale’s, and the breath between them and the air in the cottage shared by an angel and a demon, all coming together. 

The bread from it, baked in three weeks’ time, will be the first loaf Aziraphale doesn’t burn. 

  
  



End file.
